Chapter 18 - Kate
If I weren’t nursing a drug hangover, I might have thought I hallucinated.
I pause mid-step and blink three times to check I’m not.
Nope. Still there. My grumpy masked vigilante, stirring something in a pot like a domesticated god.
Turns out the way to my heart is not just through flowers and chocolate.
It’s filled by touch her and die vibes, literally, and home cooking.
Dear Demon Prince of Hell, thank you for answering my prayers!
I run my finger along the chilled glass of juice waiting on the counter. “Is this what post-trauma care looks like? You cooking?”
He looks up from the stove with a steamed visor that must be impossible to see through. “Isn’t that what you romance fiends want? A man who kills, cooks, cleans, and has a big dick?”
Darn right it is.
I gesture at the dishes in the sink. “You check off three from that list. Let’s see how well you do with the cleaning, Mr. Big Dick Energy.”
He snorts. “Glad to know the dick part’s confirmed.”
My lips twitch. “Never said which three.”
His low, husky laugh sparks heat in places that shouldn’t be heating after what went down at the club. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Hope you’re hungry.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at me. No one’s done this for me. No rescue and nurture. Definitely no hot masked bikers cooking for me while I limp around, sans makeup and wearing my onesie that says Certified Brat. Needs Dom. Apply Within.
My heart stutters with the inability to process gentleness anymore.
Trust is a fractured muscle torn by strangers who pretended to be safe, but scarred me with nights I can’t erase.
Anyone outside the circle of blood and battle-earned bonds became collateral damage to my trauma.
Yet, here is Grumpy Daddy, staying, feeding, and protecting like a damn book boyfriend.
My whole body tenses, waiting for the catch… because there’s always one, right?
I creep over to spy on what he’s stirring and sending my taste buds into a riot.
Tomato, garlic, onion, and oregano simmer in the pot.
Liquid spits on his gray t-shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care.
My inner neat freak goes into overdrive, and I yank open the third drawer and toss him a black apron with Book Slut embroidered in large hot pink letters.
He unfolds it and stares at the cryptic letters underneath the main title. “STFUATMDLAGG?” He reads out each letter slowly.
I giggle at his confusion and spell out the meaning for him. “Shut the fuck up and take my dick like a good girl.”
He groans, more exasperated than offended. “You girls are a menace.”
“And proud of it.” I hook the neck strap over his head. “No kink shaming in this house. It’s tradition.”
Damn, where’s my phone when I need it to capture the evidence of him wearing it? Harper and Charlie will die when I tell them about this. It’s probably with my purse, wherever he left it. Upstairs? I don’t want to ruin the moment by getting it.
“I’m going to use that line,” he mutters, mixing the sauce like a good little stalker.
My heart sprouts wings and flutters in a forbidden way. Grumpy Daddy is teasing back! Speaking my love language of flirting, humor, and coded innuendo. Playing my bodyguard arc to a T. And fuck me, two guarded strangers letting their walls down is more intimate than undressing.
Rational me turns investigative reporter with more questions.
Does he trust me now that he knows I don’t play on the Romans’ side?
Sharing his past with me partially validates that but leaves me curious about the specifics and if he wants to supply testimony in one of my articles.
Does he really have my back now that we’re working together?
Does this end in gunfire and heartbreak?
He said Blackthorn will come for me. What the fuck are we going to do? Run and hide?
Book Girlie me shoves her aside, rewriting the bodyguard arc into a sexy, slow burn of two broken souls with a dash of he falls first and delivering on the STFUAMDLAGG line.
Whatever happens, this feels like a win. Like I’ve passed an invisible test.
I return to Grumpy Daddy’s comment of using the line and pat my hands together. “Only if you use it in a deep, dominant growl!”
Yeah, it’s reckless, and I ought to be wary of a faceless man who may ruin me. The part of me that craves control wants to claim my power on my terms, with a joke and flirting.
“Drink. You need to rehydrate,” he orders, and my lady parts shiver.
I take a sip of the pineapple juice.
Book Girlie assumes the wheel and spits out leading inquiries. “Thanks for staying and taking care of me. You didn’t have to. It’s rare for a man to stay, let alone cook.”
The pit in my stomach churns when he stops stirring and lowers his head.
“I didn’t want to leave,” he admits.
My walls scramble to rebuild from the way he says that, like leaving me would cost him something.
Stupid heart, don’t read into it.
Tell that to my pulse, which quickens at what he’ll say to my next enquiry. “Is this about protecting me or something else?”
I have to know. I’m starting to worry about why I care so much.
It’s stupid to hope this will be anything more than a revenge fantasy mixed with sexual tension and an expiration date.
Maybe it’s the trauma talking. Or I’m starting to care.
The last time I cared for a man, he left and broke me, and I don’t want to go through that again.
Grumpy Daddy doesn’t answer right away, just shifts his weight like the truth is something too heavy to carry.
I backpedal with a grin that doesn’t quite reach my lips. “The third drawer in the kitchen contains a stash of Harper’s knives and a gun. I’m armed and dangerous if anyone unfriendly drops by.”
“Both,” he finally says. “And I’m not leaving you to fight Blackthorn alone.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re hard to read behind that mask.”
“Good.” His tone is dark velvet and danger. “I like it that way.”
Why does that sting?
“Even with me?”
“Especially with you.”
Something sharp lodges behind my breast. I laugh softly to cover the bruise. Why did I think now that we’re partners in crime that he won’t stay unreadable or in control? That’s how you survive, and I take a page out of his book. Stay guarded.
I breathe through the pain to study him while he pours the sauce over the cooked chicken breast, sprinkles cheese over the top, and slides the dish into the oven for ten minutes.
Shirt plain gray, jeans dark, boots worn in and not polished, and that damn helmet serving as a wall between us.
No band tees, no slogans, no cologne, no traceable identity.
Cotton and caution. Even after admitting we share a common enemy and we’re on the same side, he remains anonymous.
Why am I squinting through layers of reflective polycarbonate to see the man underneath when he doesn’t want to be seen?
It keeps me guarded. I want a name, face… something real.
Trying to uncover more of this broody mystery, I trail his tattoos, decoding their rebellious symbolism, which I doubt belongs to some motorcycle club, as he doesn’t bear their branding.
His left arm reads like a battle cry with an eagle mid-scream, dagger clutched, a compass pointing home, a burning skill, a fallen feather, and a mace dripping blood.
War stories in ink. A beautiful woman with a single tear and a black rose tucked behind her ear.
Grief. Love. Maybe both. The kind of ink that makes a girl forget how to breathe.
“Like what you see, Glitter Bomb?” His tone is smug and amused, a flicker of tension beneath it, daring me to look deeper.
Back to flirting, I see. I press down the ache and decide that if this is all I get—these sweet little moments with my grumpy stalker—then I’ll enjoy them while they last. Burn with the sparks.
“You know I do.” I snuggle up behind him and trail my palms over his pecs, stomach, and his ink, noting the distinct lack of piercings in his nipples, freely on display on his Instagram videos. “Where’s the piercings, Pierced & Possessive?” I pinch them as a warning not to lie.
He shifts uncomfortably, a man caught in a spotlight. “One of us is pierced. The one who thirst traps.”
I freeze at his truth grenade, palms pressed to his chest. The man who broke into my life, my bed, hell, my head, is finally showing a piece of himself, a puzzle made of glass to fit together.
“How many are behind the account?” I pinch his nipple again, harder.
“Three,” he admits, stiffly, reluctantly giving away a secret. “One for the brains. Me for the blood pressure from the unhinged bastard flexing his abs.”
“Ooohhh a harem!” I get carried away with my imagination. Three sets of hands. Three dark men in masks. All grumpy? I’m already writing the plot for my novel.
He turns to cup my face. “No. You’re all mine.”
His claim lands like a hot and unyielding brand, and some reckless part of me thrills at it.
“Hmm. You check off the possessive.” I brush my fingers through his visor steam and draw a love heart, hoping to get a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Damn this reflective polycarbonate for ruining my fantasy!
He huffs out something resembling a laugh, humor and heat behind it. “Possessive looks good on me, huh?”
Exactly the kind of trouble I shouldn’t crave.
“When do I get to see the rest of you to determine how you stack up against the book boyfriend checklist?” I attempt to draw a dick on his visor to represent his Big Dick Energy.
He clamps on my wrist and laughs warmer. “When you’re a very good girl.”
“I have been good!” I protest, stepping back dramatically. “I’m making art for you.”
His visor tips towards me, and I swear he’s smirking beneath it. “Be a good girl and give this to PJ3. He’s eyeing me like he’s ready to eat me.” He shifts a stack of sliced chicken breast that he left cooling on the chopping board.
“Take two. You didn’t say it right.” I wag a finger at him.